


chiaroscuro

by purplecity



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff, Ghosts, M/M, Terminal Illnesses, art kid renjun as usual, i swear this isn’t sad (mostly), there are a Lot of death mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28281063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplecity/pseuds/purplecity
Summary: “I’m dying. And I’m probably gonna be buried here.”Donghyuck’s eyes squint. “Everyone’s dying.”Living Boy waits for a crow to finish wailing before he continues. “I’m dyingsoon.Like, in less than a year.” The wind whispers to them both; Living Boy takes a step closer to Donghyuck in scrutiny. “I’m not meant to be able to see you, am I?”
Relationships: Huang Ren Jun/Lee Donghyuck | Haechan
Comments: 10
Kudos: 57





	chiaroscuro

**Author's Note:**

> me, an art student: haha art terms go brrrr

Donghyuck knows Renjun is an outlier the moment he spots him.

There’s a certain air to living people. Maybe that’s just because they’re physically breathing, but Donghyuck can easily differentiate his kind and theirs by standing close. It’s like an aura that, if all his five senses were intact, he can feel in every way possible. If he could still smell, it’d be like the potent fragrance of chicken broth and spring onions for when he caught the flu. If his hands could still touch, it’d be like petting a Bengal cat with the silkiest fur.

(Some cat spirits walk the graveyard at night. Curious to see if he can pet them, Donghyuck would approach them, purse his lips and coo like a baby, which more or less irritates rather than lure. 

At the very least, when the claw marks in his face swell and bleed ghostly mist, he gets confirmation that yes, it is indeed possible to pet cat spirits. 

If cats didn’t universally hate him.)

In the midst of a grassy field with corpses buried underneath, a living, breathing person stands out like a sore thumb. The divide between life and death is never more palpable when a visitor brushes dust from a headstone and tears from their eyes. Donghyuck doesn’t typically watch someone come and whisper to their dead ones—mostly because it’s awkward to witness their ghost attempt to console them with a hug—but today, under an overcast afternoon, a boy in an oversized hoodie wanders aimlessly. 

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t shed any tears. He never stops to gaze at a gravestone and its inscriptions, nor does he walk with purpose. Sometimes he coughs into a balled fist. Sometimes he blinks his eyes at a grave, then tersely nods and moves on. He seems like he simply absorbs the cold breeze and silence of the graveyard, basking in its glory.

It’s weird. He’s weird. Donghyuck has seen his fair share of weirdos obsessed with graveyards, either because of the history embedded in old granite markings or the ‘smell of death’ (which is something he has _actually_ overheard in the past). He’s even caught sight of a graverobber or two; their crimes are fairly easy to get away with in this low security graveyard. But it’s hard to watch a ghost helplessly follow the burglar carrying their bones, then dissipate into nothing.

(That once happened to a friend of his. Younger than Donghyuck at death, but chronologically over a century older. He was still in his middle school uniform as a ghost—an unfortunate accident at the school rooftop, apparently. As the man ran with his scattered bones, he begged Donghyuck to stop him because he didn’t want to fade. _We’re only ghosts,_ he had to tell him, _I’m sorry._ His face of despair lingered a moment longer than the rest of his body, until he was all gone. Poor kid.)

The boy takes on the challenge of walking on a fallen pedestal. There used to be a stone statue of an angel, but during a particularly nasty storm it toppled over and the angel lost its head. No one bothered to clean it up, so they left the whole thing gathering loose dust on a pile of dry dirt. Not like any of the ghosts could do something about it, either.

His arms are pushed to the side, wide open, mimicking a showman walking on a tightrope. When he nearly falls from a gust of wind that throws him off his balance, his gaze finds Donghyuck, and there’s a flash of recognition in his dark eyes.

Donghyuck realizes they’re staring at each other.

“You don’t look like you’re visiting someone,” he says, testing the waters. 

The way Living Boy’s eyes find his own and rip through his ghostly shell is uncanny. Scary, even. People aren’t supposed to _see_ him. In the reflection of the dark, almond sheen, there’s a part of himself staring back.

He isn’t sure what he was expecting when Living Boy hops off the pedestal, dirt-colored sneakers landing with a muted thud. 

“I’m checking the place out,” he says, casual. 

Perhaps he doesn’t quite get that Donghyuck is a ghost yet. He’s heard ghosts don’t look comically transparent like they do in movies when living eyes manage to see them. There’s no way Donghyuck would know either way. He’s long forgotten what his face looks like. He _could_ ask his fellow graveyard-dwellers—if had no shame, that is. Ghosts aren’t supposed to care about looks.

(Though he does hold on to the idea that he’s devilishly handsome.)

“What do you mean?” asks Donghyuck, genuinely confused. For a second, he wonders if his voice is too gruff or croaky, or maybe it sounds entirely different to a person’s ears. Never mind the fact that Living Boy is capable of hearing him to begin with.

All he does is shrug. “I’m dying. And I’m probably gonna be buried here.”

Donghyuck’s eyes squint. “Everyone’s dying.” 

Living Boy waits for a crow to finish wailing before he continues. “I’m dying _soon._ Like, in less than a year.” The wind whispers to them both; Living Boy takes a step closer to Donghyuck in scrutiny. “I’m not meant to be able to see you, am I?”

Donghyuck lowers his chin. He really isn’t.

“Do you only see me?” 

There are at least five other ghosts walking, floating around the immediate vicinity. Some of them are having their own conversation right next to the fallen angel and Living Boy. If he hears Donghyuck, he’s supposed to hear them too.

He nods slowly, and so does Donghyuck with a jutted lower lip. 

He was right—this guy is weird. But as weird as he is, he’s the first person that’s _seen_ Donghyuck. (Or any ghost in their graveyard, for that matter. He may not be an expert in ghostology, but that doesn’t sound right. People who can see don’t usually just see… one.) And that brings excitement to Donghyuck, despite that he couldn’t care less about attention from the living. 

“I’m Renjun,” he says, holding his hand out but, realizing something, he retracts. “Maybe we’ll be next-grave neighbors.”

“I’m Donghyuck. And I’ve never liked my neighbors.”

Donghyuck offers a crooked grin, which Renjun seems to appreciate, thanking him with a smile of his own. As expected of a person who speaks of his upcoming death like moving into a new town, he’s pretty upbeat, riding to the rhythm of Donghyuck’s witty tongue.

He’s never met someone like Renjun before. Someone who faces the concept of death head-on, exchanges greetings with a ghost like they’re assigned desk partners in class. His gaze may be painted in darkness, but he brings a strange, new light to the world of the graveyard with every raw breath he takes. It’s bright. Maybe a bit too bright. 

Which, conversely, reminds Donghyuck of how dead he is.

  
  


  
  


  
  


Donghyuck’s first impression—other than the Living Boy nickname that he keeps internal—is that Renjun is a legitimate loser. A dying loser.

Almost every day of the week, roughly the same time, a couple hours before sunset, Renjun comes through the gates, hands stuffed into his hoodie that changes color and brand every other day. Donghyuck knows of a local high school only a kilometer or so away from the graveyard, so he assumes Renjun is a student there (if he’s not a middle schooler, which his short stature could very well be implying) until Renjun mentions _this,_ broadly referring to the playground of dead bodies, is the only time he goes outside. 

“You’re homeschooled, then?” Donghyuck offers as he partakes in a stroll around the property. “Or you just don’t do that stuff at all.”

“Homeschooled is pretty close,” Renjun agrees, kicking a misshapen rock out of the way. As usual, Donghyuck finds it difficult to read his thoughts. Everything that comes out of his mouth is so cool, indifferent almost. Like he has no regards for anything and only thinks about what he sees with his wandering eyes. “I would go to school except it’s far from my house and there aren’t bus stops nearby, plus my mom is too busy to drive me there. My only option is to walk which would kinda speed up the, you know, dying process.”

Donghyuck tilts his head. No, he doesn’t know. And he doesn’t press the subject either, sensing something in Renjun’s implicit averting of his gaze.

“I was supposed to graduate soon when I died, I think.” When Renjun glances at him with a cocked brow, Donghyuck flattens his lips and attempts to add more, and fails awkwardly. His mouth opens, jaw shifting like he’s speaking words, except he isn’t because he doesn’t remember. “I dunno. I guess that’s not very helpful to you.”

“‘s okay. I don’t care about dying,” Renjun says. 

He picks up the rock he’s been playing one-player soccer with and tosses it at the old chapel, a building undoubtedly filled with cobwebs and mice. It lands with a sharp _tink_ that scares a couple sparrows away. The soles of his shoes crunch the fallen ivy leaves, whereas Donghyuck makes no such noise when he walks the same path.

“Why not?”

Renjun’s shoulders rise tautly, then deflate. “I don’t have much to live for. I mean, I’ll miss my family, but they’ve pretty much accepted it by now so I’m kinda left with no choice but to also accept my fate.” A gleam in Renjun’s eyes flashes under the sunlight, filtered to a gentle beam by the clouds. “There’s other ghosts here, right?”

“Yeah,” Donghyuck says, wincing at an old man silently smacking his cane on a crying, tearless, little boy. Both are dressed like they belong to a time before photography was invented. 

Tendrils of gray clouds swirl in the sky above them. They’ve been adamant, growing thicker this past week, and Donghyuck expects rainfall soon. 

He looks to Renjun, just now noticing how the hoodie, as large as it is, doesn’t shield him much from the cold (an assumption based on Renjun’s gentle shivering, and more light coughs). Another closer look, and Renjun’s arms are thinner under those sleeves than he thought.

“How come I only see you?”

A marvelous question—Donghyuck hasn’t a single clue, either. And he makes that evident from pulling the edges of his lips far apart and soundly huffing through empty nostrils.

“Fate?” Donghyuck suggests, which earns an unbelieving snort. Instantly, he deadpans, “Are you saying you believe in ghosts but not fate?”

“Who said I believe in ghosts? Maybe you’re just a figment of my imagination. Or maybe I’m in a coma and this is a simulated reality.”

Donghyuck’s loud groan overshadows the breeze pushing a distant squeaky gate. “If I could feel pain, you’d make my head hurt.”

Renjun’s pale face illuminates with a cheeky grin. 

It’s strange how things work when Donghyuck spends time with someone, hearing their calm, hushed breathing. He thinks there’s a skip in his heartbeats when Renjun glows with a smile, a lantern in the misty home of the deceased. Obviously, that’s not at all the case since his heart died long, long ago, but he still _believes_ in it because Renjun, flesh and blood, makes it real. Even if it’s just an illusion, it’s a nice one. And he forgets, but this time it’s a pleasant forgetting.

  
  


  
  


  
  


“Where’s your headstone?”

Rain dribbles on the cobbled path like a shower. Each time Renjun takes a step on the grass, his foot sinks in malleable mud. He finds it curious that Donghyuck is standing beside him, sharing the dry space under his umbrella, except careful so as to not overlap bodies. Not that he’d feel a ghost merging with his tangible body, anyway. He thinks. Maybe he can try and see how it’d go sometime. 

But for now, he prefers watching Donghyuck uninterrupted, warmth expanding in him as Donghyuck tries to fit snugly under the umbrella when they both know rain doesn’t affect him.

“Under the willow tree.” 

Donghyuck points a finger due east, to the far end of the cemetery grounds. If Renjun squints hard enough, he can make out the figure of a low and wide tree, larger than the others. 

“I’m gonna go visit you,” Renjun announces. Step-by-step, puddles in the cracks between flat rocks splashing, all drowned out by perpetual rainfall. 

“It’s nothing special, y’know,” Donghyuck says. 

He hasn’t even been to his headstone in a while himself. It could have been months or years since the last time he saw his name etched into gritty granite—he’d have no clue. No one is allowed to have a proper sense of time in the plane of once-existing. The only _time_ he knows are dates on headstones, and even those mean little to nothing to him.

“I just wanna see what’s on it. Maybe get some inspiration for my own while I’m at it.”

Donghyuck frowns, although it’s not much a change from his flat expression. “You talk about your own death like it’s an award or something.”

“What can I say?” After a little while, Renjun coughs. It’s heavier than it used to be. “It’s the biggest event of my life,” he says, somewhat choked. Donghyuck, silent, eyes the way he pats the base of his neck and scrunches his brows. 

The weeping willow tree comes into sight as do the couple of headstones hidden in its embrace. Now Donghyuck does recall bits and pieces of his interactions with his grave, following Renjun who points it out with keen eyes.

Last time he had a visitor, the green of the grass slept under a crystal white blanket. He thought the snow-topped gravestones looked cute, like they were decorated for Christmas, and felt disappointed when he saw his wasn’t. There was a girl, crouching in front, brushing mittens against the bold Donghyuck Lee with purpose. He had no idea who she was, though her rosy cheeks did seem vaguely familiar. He wondered if she would cry like visitors often do, but she didn’t. Didn’t even say a word. Donghyuck saw the sorrow in her eyes, clear and glossy. She left a small reindeer plush resting against the stone before leaving. 

That was one of the few times Donghyuck wished he could touch physical objects.

“Here we are,” Renjun says, satisfaction in his voice. When he reads the inscription, his hand absentmindedly tilts the umbrella, saving Donghyuck’s gravestone from the relentless rain. It isn’t much of a gesture yet Donghyuck backs away, his chest tugging ropes, shocked at how dry he feels all of a sudden.

  
  


_**Donghyuck Lee**  
Peace, at last  
6.06 **1992—2010** 5.12_

  
  


Renjun reads aloud, then follows it up with, “Huh. You were my age,” and a sideways grin.

“I guess so,” is all Donghyuck mumbles.

Renjun strides on. “Sounds like you were waiting to die too,” he says, re-reading the message beneath his name.

“I might’ve had a shitty life.”

“Well, like it says—peace at last, right?”

Donghyuck never understood those words, has no idea where they came from or who decided to include that on his grave. Maybe the answer to all those questions is himself. Maybe it’s something else. The point is: he won’t know and he doesn’t have to, because it doesn’t matter anymore.

When Renjun reaches out and places his palm on the crown of his gravestone, Donghyuck looks away. He feels it, he feels something, and it’s like his entire body is on fire, like how those ladies from the west corner in austere dresses say they died. With his body tickling all over with flames, he starts to feel another creature—the raindrops.

  
  


  
  


  
  


Sometimes, Renjun doesn’t come by himself. He brings a tattered leather satchel, carried over the shoulder, and once the storm has cleared, he likes to sit with his legs crossed on an oak bench and draw. He draws all sorts of things, from the empty chapel to the trees and sometimes, just the cobblestone path. Accompanied by perhaps a couple ants or a snail. (The snail is better because it moves so horrendously slow that it’s basically a still-life drawing.)

Donghyuck calls the condensed charcoal ‘brittle sticks’ when he first comes across Renjun sketching the willow tree, who merely rolls his eyes and smudges his paper with the pad of his pinky. Art was not Donghyuck’s strong suit—not a memory, just a vehement hunch—and thus he doesn’t bother to _ooh_ and _ahh_ at the artistic process. 

Another thing is that Renjun, for some reason, visits at night occasionally. The moon is high and regardless that it’s well past closing hours, he still arrives with half a smile and a full punch to his words when Donghyuck questions him about sneaking in.

“Have you seen the fence?” Incidentally, Donghyuck has, and he already gets the point that Renjun is trying to make. “It doesn’t even go up to my waist.”

Donghyuck snorts. “Yeah. That must be real short.” Renjun threatens to beat him up and frankly, the only thing stopping him is the fact that he physically can’t. In several aspects.

Donghyuck finds a cozy spot against the willow tree, seemingly one of the few things his body doesn’t automatically phase through. Under bright moonlight and an open sky, Renjun is only brighter than ever, and Donghyuck loses words altogether. He sleeps in the shadow of the willow, as much as a ghost can pretend to sleep, to the rhythm of Renjun’s charcoal clicking, swishing against the rough paper.

“What did you like to do when you were alive?” asks Renjun, eyes fixed on his work. A mark of charcoal mars his otherwise clean cheek. Donghyuck marvels at how he doesn’t realize it’s there, when it’s so dark against his glistening skin.

“It’s been so long. I don’t remember anything. I don’t even remember how I died,” Donghyuck says, the sound of a sigh escaping his throat.

“You don’t remember ‘cause you’re dead or you’re stupid?”

Donghyuck’s wrinkled nose, pursed lips in anger only bring Renjun to giggle like an overjoyed child. As easily as his laughter fades into the night, so does his overall delight until everything withers. His hand stops moving yet it keeps its grip on the charcoal.

“I don’t wanna forget my life.” Renjun stares at nothing in particular. “Or drawing. Or sneaking out to come here and talk to you.”

Silence. Then Donghyuck hums and floats to Renjun’s bench. 

“If there’s one good thing out of not remembering, it’s that you don’t miss anything.”

It takes a second, but his livelihood returns in pieces, starting with his crescent eyes then rising cheeks, curved lips, a tilt of his chin to blink dazzling eyes up at Donghyuck. He imagines the moonlight and starshine cutting through his partly translucent figure like laser beams, blessing Renjun with the secrets of endless outer space. Stars finding a home in each of his round, wavering eyes. Moonlight absorbed by his pale face. 

“Yeah… That’s a good point.”

Donghyuck smiles. Beams like the sun.

Abrupt pain crosses Renjun’s expression, overriding his glee. His head flicks away, his arm reactively brought to his lips. His fit of coughs are muffled by his sleeve and lasts the longest ever. Donghyuck knows that this is why he’s dying and while he has the urge to hold him until he’s calm once more, the devil in him whispers _sooner he dies, sooner he’ll be with us._

No. Don’t say that. Don’t say it like that.

Renjun shakes and, for a second, he’s relaxed, but his eyes clench again when he feels more crawling out of his throat. His entire body violently jerks to his coughs, which consistently grow louder, until he has to hunch over his lap and drops the charcoal. On impact, it snaps in half. 

Donghyuck tries to rub his back, like how someone did for him when he was sick, and then remembers he can’t. Still, he presses his palm to Renjun’s trembling back as though proving a point. Sure enough, it goes right through like nothing is there, and Renjun coughs on, droplets of red joining the charcoal drawing.

  
  


  
  


  
  


It takes a while—nearly a month, but Donghyuck can’t count time—for Renjun to return to the graveyard. Some lengthy treatment, he said, and it’s ongoing but his mother is out with friends so he seized the opportunity. Donghyuck considers showing concern for his condition but, in the end, he doesn’t. He hangs onto the hope that Renjun is happy like this. Perfectly content in waiting for the day he collapses and breathes no more. Donghyuck isn’t looking forward to it yet he is. 

It feels so morbid and wrong to wish a person death, ghost or not. But what else is he supposed to do when Renjun is prepared and awaiting death, other than offer less than useful afterlife advice?

  
  


  
  


  
  


“Whatcha drawing?” Donghyuck asks a total of five times.

And without fail, Renjun distractedly utters, “Stuff,” each time.

Unlike before, Renjun uses toned paper and charcoal in the form of sharp pencils. The only thing that doesn’t change is his habit of rubbing charcoal on every available finger, then moving on to the balls of his palm and knuckles once his fingertips accumulate too much charcoal. 

“Shouldn’t you use paper towels or something for that?” 

“Forgot to bring some. I’m dying anyways.”

“That shouldn’t be your excuse for everything.”

“What’s stopping me? A ghost?”

Donghyuck chases a little squirrel around the field until the critter, apparently sensing some unpleasant ghostly presence, runs off into the willow tree. He’s bored. Whenever Renjun is invested in his art, he won’t even give him as much as a side glance until he’s covered in charcoal dust and the sun lazily sets. 

Today, Renjun acts particularly strange about his drawing. He sits with his knees up, pressing the paper pad tightly in between thighs and stomach. So many times has Donghyuck caught Renjun peeking at him, then shooting back to the paper like nothing happened. And when he tries to approach him, Renjun pushes the paper so far into his torso that Donghyuck’s pretty certain there’s no space for his pencil left to drag charcoal strokes. 

Donghyuck pauses, thinking.

He whistles, hands behind his back, a comical impression of a person who’s supposed to be ‘not suspicious’ and succeeds in doing the exact opposite. Renjun raises his brow for a second, but decides that it’s not worth pressing and quietly, diligently draws on. 

A couple moments later, Renjun screams as a hand suddenly shoots out of his paper, fingers grasping for his nose. He even tosses his pencil into the sea of graves and, upon realization, grits his teeth so hard Donghyuck might hear them grind. That is, if he wasn’t cackling so loud.

Renjun’s glare is anything but intimidating in Donghyuck’s eyes. It’s mostly just cute.

“Asshole.”

“No, you just get scared easily.”

“Thought I was gonna die of a heart attack instead of coughing my lungs out,” Renjun remarks, annoyed, and Donghyuck’s shit-eating grin droops for a moment. Realizing his pencil’s gone into the grass, he sighs in exasperation.

Donghyuck finally gets a peek at Renjun’s paper, though it’s only the tiniest portion near the corner. It’s blank, save for a couple fluid, light strokes cutting through the empty space.

“I’ve thought about it for a while now, but isn’t it kinda morbid to draw your future cemetery?”

Without his tools and the energy to retrieve them, Renjun’s back falls flat on the bench. His eyes flicker to Donghyuck, fingers tapping the edge of his paper, thoughtfully observing.

“That’s not what I’m drawing.”

“Then what else is there? The crows?”

“ _No,_ dumbass.” Sighing again, Renjun lifts the paper, in full view of sunlight. “I’m drawing _you._ ”

Donghyuck makes a noise of confusion until his gaze meets another, one sketched on the yellowed paper. Most of it is still a rough outline, but Renjun had begun with shading around the eyes and nose. _The eyelashes are so long and pretty, I like those moles on his cheek, those full lips are cute, he’s got a nice haircut,_ Donghyuck thinks, but instantly becomes flustered realizing he’s talking about a portrait of himself. 

_Then_ it hits like a truck on a highway, oh my fucking god, this is what I fucking look like.

All these years, forgetting what he looks like and lamenting how ghosts don’t show up in mirrors, diminishes to a simple exhale that loses its form to the heat of day. To think that the answer was here, in the hands of a talented, dying artist—for once in his ghost life, Donghyuck believes the word ‘emotional’ can fittingly describe the surge of a free-flowing stream that pours out as one, big, idiotic smile.

“You’re kinda good at drawing. I guess.” 

If Donghyuck could cry, or remembered how to, he’d be drowning in his tears.

Satisfied to the brim, Renjun smiles too. “Thanks. And you’re welcome.”

  
  


  
  


  
  


The complete drawing arrives a couple nights later, carefully transported by hand since Renjun’s satchel was too small. Every feature is shaded to near perfection, and white highlights shine against the darkness of Donghyuck’s shape. Forgetting he can’t touch and not caring, Donghyuck reaches out to the paper, tracing his digit along the lines. The lines of _him._

There’s no telling how accurate or, on the other hand, fantasized this depiction is, but Donghyuck has no qualms about it. If this is what Renjun sees him as, then he’ll gladly accept it as himself. 

From the image of gentle swaying of his bangs and a faraway gaze, Donghyuck can feel the autumn breeze nipping his bare skin, something he thought to be impossible. His lips are pursed (“actually, that’s just how plump they look”), his eyes twinkle (“I put white on your eyes the most, but I think this still doesn’t do them justice”), every part of him is so animated and, dare he say, alive. _Alive._

“You brought me to life,” Donghyuck says, unbelieving no matter how long he stares at the drawing. 

“That doesn’t make sense,” Renjun sneers like a playful kitten. “But I get what you mean.”

“I…” Donghyuck swallows an empty lump at the back of his throat. “I wish I could hug you right now.”

Unexpectedly, Renjun returns, “I do too, Donghyuck. I really do. I keep thinking that if I reach out to you, I’ll be able to grab your shoulders and pull you in for a warm hug.”

“But you won’t,” Donghyuck finishes for him, to which Renjun somberly nods. 

In the still night, there is something that moves in the air, languid and heavy, that pulls Donghyuck and Renjun together. One with gravity’s grace, one lighter than a hummingbird’s feather. Nonetheless, they gravitate close until a shallow exhale can’t even pass through without being squeezed. Donghyuck takes out his hand and Renjun offers his own. The rules of existence forbid them from joining hands, but they imagine they do so anyway, and it carries into the night.

As clear as the sky is, there’s a raindrop or two that rustles the grass.

“You make me feel alive, somehow,” Renjun says, choked, but not from his failing lungs. “I feel alive right now, and so do you. Which makes no sense ‘cause I’m dying and you’re dead.”

Donghyuck shakes his head. 

“It makes perfect sense.”

  
  


  
  


  
  


Treating the framed drawing of Donghyuck as a campfire, he and Renjun gather around his gravestone, laying on the grass like dogs, the constellations reflecting their broad smiles.

“I was stuck at the hospital once in eighth grade. Right in the middle of October too, when I was _so_ looking forward to the Halloween dance,” Renjun says, his hands folded atop his belly. The grass smells fresh, owls are hooting the night away and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be, in spite of bundles of bone that sleep just a few feet under. “Someone who apparently had a crush on me left me a bunch of letters and gifts anonymously. They never showed up to my room in person, though. Well—maybe they did, but they obviously didn’t tell me.”

Donghyuck listens, quiet as the dead. His memories, nowhere to be found, affords not a single story of his own to share, so all he can do is listen. And that’s okay. Renjun understands.

“The treatment hurt like a bitch. I mean, it worked for the most part, but god I hated it.” A snort. Then a shy smile that Donghyuck misses. “I had to imagine my secret admirer as this super handsome guy, and we held hands to get through it.” He grimaces in remembrance. “And I even thought about running from the hospital to find this imaginary guy so we could be boyfriends and have our first kiss. But obviously that never happened.”

“First kiss,” Donghyuck repeats, mostly to himself. But Renjun hears him anyway. Renjun’s always heard him, even the tiniest mumbles.

“You think you had your first kiss? Before you died?”

At first, Donghyuck shakes his head, but that makes no noise so he opens his mouth. “I don’t think so. I’d be cooler as a ghost if I did. Sexier.”

Renjun laughs like that’s the funniest thing ever. “I might die before I have mine, too.”

“Better put it on your bucket list then.”

“Actually, I think I’ll save it for later,” Renjun says, drowsily fluttering his lashes.

Donghyuck’s head lifts from the grass, the rest of his body too lazy and comfortable, oddly, to move. 

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Why does it matter?” An owl’s cry and faraway howl cuts the pause of silence. “Does anything matter anymore once you’re dead?” Renjun asks. It’s chiefly rhetorical, laced with some sarcasm—and apparently the dead are numb to those hints.

“Well, it matters because…”

“Because?” Renjun drawls, expectant.

“W— Well, you’re right. Nothing matters when you’re a ghost,” Donghyuck stammers, losing to the pressure and regret of spilling what he meant to keep for himself. It’s true, for the most part, but nothing is without exceptions.

Unimpressed, Renjun tuts, and the blades of grass rustle and flatten under his palms pushing down, in turn lifting his torso up. None of it happens without a wet cough that echoes into the night.

(At this point in progression, none of Renjun’s coughs are the terse, hidden-by-forearms type. They’re loud enough to frighten little animals, and have been a lingering issue that gives Renjun a constantly sore stomach from doubling over so often, so vigorously. Yet he still insists on traveling to the graveyard on foot, unbeknownst to his mother and doctor. To him, what lies in the graveyard is worth more than anything he could spend his last hours for. No one would understand that—no one but Donghyuck, dead as he is.)

  
  


  
  


  
  


“Donghyuck, I’m scared.”

His voice is hoarse, and he never surpasses a certain volume without croaking from the depths of his chest. Donghyuck says he should take it easy, but hard-headed Renjun insists that he’s not ‘weak’—even if his trembling indicates otherwise.

“You don’t have to be. I’ll be right here.”

Renjun inaudibly mutters something of an _uh-huh_ , muffled by impending sniffles and sobs.

“What was dying like?” Renjun asks between the crying stars and brilliant moon, and Donghyuck shifts in place.

“It’s hard to say, ( _because I scarcely remember_ ) but I was cold all over. Imagine spiders made out of ice crawling up your entire body. It’s kinda like that. Then I felt like crying, except when you’re a ghost you don’t shed tears. Or maybe we do shed invisible ghost tears—who knows.” ( _You’re supposed to be the ghost here, dumbass._ ) “And then once that’s over with, I was happy. Really happy. And _then_ that went away until there was nothing left, and I just floated wherever, not knowing how long it’s been or particularly caring.”

Donghyuck looks to Renjun for his thoughts. All he does is laugh, then scoff.

“That’s not helpful.”

“Then don’t ask, loser.”

“Shut up.”

The waterfall cascades, Renjun hardly able to breathe from all his emotions gushing onto the grass. His hands wipe again and again but there’s more tears every time, something that’s become so foreign to Donghyuck that he watches on, his tongue caught by claws.

Donghyuck offers himself—his hand merges with Renjun’s arm, then his shoulder, then his cheek rouged with streaks of tears. To his surprise, Renjun turns away from his fists and towards Donghyuck, the tip of his nose and around his eyes red as roses. In the midst of tears, he has room for a raspy chortle.

“I felt that. Thanks. Thank you.”

Donghyuck swells inside. It builds and builds until it finally pops.

“So, do you think I’m shedding invisible ghost tears right now?”

  
  


  
  


  
  


While Renjun is away for an extended period of time, it snows. This time around, his gravestone _does_ get decorated with a sheet of snow, and he coos at how cute and ‘Christmassy’ it looks. Which is funny when he considers that he barely knows what Christmas is about, not until ghosts of little kids wail about presents and a big man and flying deers.

To Donghyuck’s delight and slight horror, he watches Renjun climbing one leg at a time over the back fence one night. The piled snow crunches under his footsteps, though Donghyuck notices they’re not even shoes. They’re slippers. And under a puffy coat is one undoubtedly thin and cold gown of the same boring baby blue.

“It’s so fucking cold,” Renjun curses through gritted teeth.

Donghyuck is unimpressed. “Then why’d you come here?” His gaze shifts from the gown to the slippers and tightens. “You’re gonna get in so much trouble. And probably die on the way back.”

“Bring it on, then,” Renjun says, his shit-eating grin not unlike Donghyuck’s character trait. A grin which is short-lived, snapped in half by another violent fit of coughs.

Together, they embark on a walk kept strictly on the cobbled path. It may be well into the night, but the snow glitters under the moonlight and with Renjun’s lasting smile, Donghyuck doesn’t feel like he’s floating in the dark anymore. 

“You know,” Renjun says, halting, his knees close together, “I think there’s a reason why I can see you and only you. Just like how there’s a reason why I’m dying at the ripe age of seventeen.”

“Yeah? And what would that be?”

Renjun scrunches his nose. “How would I know? That’s a secret for the universe to keep.”

Of course—Donghyuck rolls his eyes. “You irk me. Maybe I should haunt you while I still have the chance.”

“Well, you better make it quick ‘cause I’m not gonna last long,” Renjun easily challenges. “Make me do something funny like crawl down the stairs backwards. Like they do in the movies, yeah?”

“Pretty sure that would be a demon and not a lovely little ghost like me,” Donghyuck says, nose high and proud.

“Don’t see the difference.”

Renjun sniffles from the cold, his hands tucked into his coat’s pockets. Donghyuck’s irritation from Renjun’s remarks, seemingly soothed by the snowy winter, is replaced with something more tender. One day, not too far into the future, the candle will go out, but he’ll remember how tough and ferocious the flame was while it lasted. That might be the only memory that’ll ever matter to him.

“Are you still scared?”

“No,” Renjun candidly replies, “I’m just worried I won’t make it here.”

“You will. We all do.” Donghyuck tilts his head side-to-side and his eyes wander. “Did.”

Despite everything, Renjun smiles angelically. “I know. Thanks.”

They try holding hands—it doesn’t work entirely, but they know it’s still there and happening, just between them. For the most part, Renjun gives his palm to open air—terribly cold yet he’s not bothered by that—and Donghyuck levitates his own. Naturally, their fingers curl, intertwining life and death like they were always meant to do this. In hindsight, it's not much, but it’s comforting.

“We can do this properly once you’re here, forever and ever.”

“Forever sounds like hell with you,” Renjun says, his smile breaking through warm tears. “I wouldn’t want to miss out on some hell, I think.”

If they both put their hearts to it, it’s like they really are holding hands and leaving imprints in the snow.

  
  


  
  


  
  


When people in black garbs gather one morning, Donghyuck knows.

Not many people choose to bury their loved ones under the willow tree. Maybe it’s the connotations of its name, weeping willow, but Donghyuck thinks there’s always a hidden light in everything that otherwise seems bleak, devoid of color. 

He watches, leaned against the willow trunk. There’s a woman who sobs into a handkerchief, a woman with the same fox eyes and pouty lips as Renjun. She whispers something in a language Donghyuck doesn’t understand and touches her son’s gravestone, mournful yet relieved. He imagines Renjun sympathizes, except maybe not as bummed about his passing.

After everyone cries into the silence and parts with the graveyard, Donghyuck hears rustling from above.

“Your mother seems nice,” Donghyuck says without glancing up.

Renjun’s soft laughter twinkles. “She is. I feel bad for her. Shitty dad made this happen to me. But it’s whatever.” He falls from the tree branch, landing steadily on his feet. His hoarseness of voice remains in bits and pieces, but Donghyuck finds it rather charming now. “If he ever remembers that he had a son and decides to visit, I’ll haunt him soon as I can.”

“I can haunt him with you. Together we’ll show him hell.”

Both of them snicker like little devils. 

Donghyuck is breathless—as breathless as a ghost can be—at the _realness_ of Renjun standing before him. He’s still the same snarky person, remnants of charcoal dust on his hand. Part of him is translucent now, like stained glass that reforms the light passing through. Donghyuck was half-expecting to see the hospital gown, but it appears that Renjun managed to convince them to let him pass in his comfortable, everyday hoodie and jeans and sneakers.

Most importantly, he’s here. Sharing the same world with him.

“Took you a while,” says Donghyuck, a little choked.

“Is that supposed to be an insult?”

A moment of fond smiling flies by. “Welcome to the other side. How did it feel to die?”

“Really weird!” Renjun exclaims, eyes wide all of a sudden. “It was cold also, like you said. But kinda amazing. There was this huge crowd of people at the station and I knew you were in there, for some reason. And I was trying to find you and I figured out you had a huge dorky halo on your head. Then we went on the train together to SF and watched the seals from the boardwalk.”

“Aw.” Donghyuck is utterly incapable of hiding his huge smile. “You totally made that up. It’s a nice story though.”

Renjun pouts like a deflated, whining toddler. “I didn’t! You really think I’d flatter _you_ with a halo if I were messing around?”

Their delighted laughs mingle together in a space where no one else hears them. When it dies down and they simply gaze at one another, Renjun gulps and takes a step forward. Sheepish as ever, he gingerly holds out his hand.

“Can I touch you now?”

Donghyuck grins wide. “I was wondering when you’d ask.”

It’s so viscerally real. Their hands meet and touch by the fingertips, then to the palms, the ridges and valleys telling their unique stories. Donghyuck wonders exactly how long it’s been since he’s touched hands like this with anyone, let alone have the desire to do so. And Renjun finds the transition from dying teen to eternal ghost hard to wrap his head around, but Donghyuck’s firm grip helps him relax and realize he won’t have to journey by himself.

Everything ghosts aren’t supposed to have is here. Hearts pumping loudly in their eardrums. Standing close enough to feel another’s breath spread throughout. Warm and teeming with life.

Donghyuck’s face even flushes pink.

“Can I get my first kiss?” he bashfully asks.

“ _Our_ first kiss,” Renjun corrects, equally shy with blush-tipped ears.

Their lips meet, slow and tender. Their hands make sure they’re always touching, either by holding the waist or cupping cheeks. A reminder and celebration that they’re able to do this now, and will be for the rest of time to come.

Nothing’s ever been so sentimental, so vivid and tangible and real in their lives. 

They fall to the grass by the willow tree, rolling and giggling and embracing beside the two young graves.

**Author's Note:**

> unintentional christmas fic?! *not clickbait*  
> thank you for reading!!!
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/purpIecity) [cc](https://curiouscat.qa/renrabu) ♡


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